


crack from love's weight

by south_like_sherman



Series: press my nose up to the glass around your heart [6]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: ? - Freeform, Aftermath, Angst, Borderline Poetry, Break Up, Depression, F/M, Flowers, Funeral, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Marriage, Metaphors, Poetry, Post-Break Up, Recovery, Well - Freeform, bc its me, suicide aftermath, um, who else hates me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 10:56:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10535040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/south_like_sherman/pseuds/south_like_sherman
Summary: "Alex thinks the hardest part might be that John died in a bathroom with shattered mirrors and blood on the tiles and a tap he forgot to turn off. The worst part is he died alone and Alex sat in his blood for hours and pretended he was a photo. (He thinks about fingers framing his face.)"orthere's always someone left behind[basically i wanted to write alex in the aftermath. sue me. i promise fluff is coming as soon as i've written the earlier parts to this thing i'm so sorry]





	

**i**

So it turns out John is mortal. It turns out he's made out of flesh and blood and bone, after all. John Laurens will forever be the boy with flowers in his hair and and green in his veins, the biggest what if of Alex's life. And—and he's married. He met a girl with red lips and soft, dark eyes and she wore a white dress and his John was gone so he thought, why not. He met a girl who didn't have daffodils in her apartment but she had soft skin and soft bones and a soft heart, and she was lovely. (She wasn't John.)

So it turns out John is mortal. He knows because he'd opened John's apartment door because he never locked it, and dropped off his weekly delivery because neither him or Eliza trust John to take care of himself. Alex tells himself just because he's married and they're not dating doesn't mean he can't still look after John, and he can almost hear John laughing at him.

But—the point is John is mortal. Was mortal. He doesn't know what tense to talk about John in anymore. Thinks he'll settle for a combination for now, just until he's figured things out. He thinks of both of John's hands framing his face, and he feels like a polaroid in John's fingers.

John doesn't answer when Alex calls his name the first time. Or the second, or the third. So—ok, Alex thinks. He's out. He waits an hour. Two. Three. He loses count, and loses his mind. Unwraps the pie and puts it in the fridge and picks at his nails with a thumb and forefinger. Thumbs the soft petals and tries not to tear them apart, because after all, John did love them so much. (The way he'd smile when he got a new one, the soil caught in the beds of his nails. He's the earth.) (Alex wants to eat the world raw.)

At some point he stands up and walks across the tiny apartment to the bathroom because the tightening twist below his abdomen is becoming too much, and he swings open the door and almost doesn't see it. And John's mortal and mortals can die.

He doesn't know what tense to use anymore, because he is, he was, he's mortal. John is mortal. There's another language on his tongue and it sounds better but he's still trying to scream but it feels like there are fingers in his throat but he's a picture and he shouldn't be able to move. So he doesn't. He pretends he's still framed in John's hands, he pretends nothing changed. He's a photo and he can't move, so he stays and looks anywhere but John's body. He's mortal after all. He wonders if he touches John now, he'll fall apart like they do in movies. Does that happen in movies? He doesn't know.

His John his John his John his John—it feels like he can only say those two words in that order and that's all that's all that's all.

His John.

A boy with flowers in his hair. A boy with blood filling his lungs, a boy who breathed it in and said it was other people's, not his. Said he took it from their hearts and drank it all. A boy who's tongue collected dust while his heart collected others blood that dripped from his lungs. He always carried his breath above his heart, Alex remembers that.

A boy a boy a boy a boy—his boy. His John. A boy.

Mortal.

**ii**

Define the end. Because maybe there's a sequel at the end of this page, maybe there's a reprise and a repeated song instead of a grave.

Alex wonders if John's bones will crumble. Wants bone-dust and flowers, and he brings daffodils to the funeral. A girl by his side. Not a girl, a woman with a soft heart, placing her hand over his as he lays flowers over the grave. He throws petals over the casket instead of dirt, and buries John in what he loved most. Loves most. Loved loves loved loves—what tense what tense what _tense_.

He thinks the hardest part might be that he died in a bathroom with shattered mirrors and blood on the tiles and a tap he forgot to turn off. The worst part is he died alone and Alex sat in his blood for hours and pretended he was a photo. (He thinks about fingers framing his face.) (Thinks about burning them.)

His heart breaks and nothing spills out, and his hollow rib cage comes apart in his chest.

A woman takes the broken bone fragments and tosses them in the air and says she can predict the future, and Alex asks her what she sees. (Nothing.) (An ending.) (Define the end.)

**iii**

He thinks his life starts with a bundle of blankets and tiny, new-born cries. His life restarts. His son his son his son his son. Define a beginning.

Write a beginning of a book, and at least you have somewhere to start. Write a beginning of a book, and try not to let your tears fall on the page because you know how it ends. Alex knows how it ends.

He frames his face with his own hands and thinks of black and white photographs and polaroids, and Eliza tells him he has to move on. Tells him he's still alive and kisses his nose.

There's a pie in John's fridge he never ate.

Is this the beginning?

(Eliza doesn't make pies anymore.)

**iv**

Frame your face in your fingers and pretend not to exist. Rewind rewind rewind and think of John's fingers instead of your own. See, this is what Alex does.

Scratches words into his own bones alongside John's name and thinks of his boy, his boy his boy his boy his boy. His son.

Alex takes him to a graveyard and tells him about a boy with flowers and freckles like him. Traces the carved words with a ragged finger nails and reads them aloud because his son is too small to understand.

 _Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori_.

He doesn't tell his son what it means, just pulls him closer and tells him to imagine. Tells him to frame his face with his fingers and pretend to be a polaroid, and rewind time. And his son, his beautiful, rose-bud boy does it. Rewind rewind rewind rewind.

His rose-bud boy. They're a photograph.

Rewind. (Let it stick.)

**v**

John is mortal. His John is mortal and his John is gone.

And—his rose-bud boy. His boy, his John—

Bone-dust and flowers, petals on a gravestone.

Rewind—

Is this the beginning, was this the beginning end end end us, what _tense_?

Soft hearts and white dresses and black and white photos. Hold your breath above your heart, dear boy—

A song playing on loop, and—

Is this an ending?

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr is [here](https://the-girl-who-cried-ship.tumblr.com) if you wanna stalk me!  
> comments are greatly appreciated please and thank you,,,,  
> thanks for reading have a great day xx  
> ~ Kinzie


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